Moments had scarcely elapsed before the rioters’ collective fury shifted direction, their previous zeal for finding the vampyre giving way to a grim determination to rid the house of its elusive tormentor. Frustration mounted as their search yielded no trace of Sir Ferdinand Lazarus. A sinister pallor seemed to settle over the mob, as a growing consensus emerged that the vampyre had either evaded their grasp through some arcane art or vanished through means beyond their ken.

“Set fire to the house!” a voice bellowed from the ranks.

“Burn it down!” echoed others, their voices swelling into a cacophony of rage and malice. “Fire the den!”

A frenzied energy possessed the crowd, as though a dark purpose had infused their very souls. The mob’s desire for destruction grew, their shouts reverberating through the night. They proceeded with a fervor that bordered on the ecstatic, driven by a singular, destructive impulse.

Old wooden furniture, dry as dust and rotted with age, was heaped into a towering pyre. Faggots and shavings, gathered from the bowels of the cellar, were added to the growing mound.

“Perfect!” cried one man, his voice dripping with a triumphant malice. “We’ll smoke him out, if the flames don’t burn him first.”

“Ensure the house is empty,” came a voice from the crowd. “Search every nook and cranny. We must give fair warning.”

“Indeed!” roared several voices in agreement. “Search the house. Make certain all are clear before we set the fire.”

A flickering torch was handed to a volunteer who, with a loud, mocking cry, ascended the stairs. “Come out, come out! The house is on fire!”

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” shouted the mob, their voices a dissonant chorus. The sounds of their fervent cries mixed with the flickering light of their torches, casting grotesque, shifting shadows across the walls.

In a matter of moments, the man returned with a grim confirmation. “All’s clear! The house is empty!”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Quickly, lads, to the fire!” urged another. “I see the red coats are leaving the town!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” the mob’s cries escalated, an infernal exultation driving them. “Burn the house—burn the vampyre out! Let him face the flames!”

With reckless abandon, the pile was ignited. A blaze erupted with ferocious intensity, the flames roaring and climbing with an almost sentient fury. The fire surged, enveloping the house in a hellish glow. The rioters, caught in a maelstrom of ecstatic frenzy, danced around the inferno, their movements wild and unrestrained. They resembled frenzied savages, reveling in their own destruction.

The torches had set fire to multiple points of the structure, and the flames swiftly coalesced into a singular, blazing entity. The fire roared with a ferocity that drove many of the rioters to retreat, their survival instincts overcoming their desire for chaos.

“Fetch the poles and firewood!” came the command, and the mob complied with almost supernatural efficiency. Faggots, firewood, and winter stores were hauled to the blaze. Even the doors and gates of the outhouses were dragged forth and cast upon the fire, which now hungrily reached toward the upper floors.

“Hurrah! Fire!” the mob chanted, their cheers a haunting melody against the backdrop of the burning house. As the flames tore through doors and windows, each new victory of the inferno prompted a frenzied cheer from the crowd.

“Where is the vampyre now?” demanded one man, his voice tinged with bitter satisfaction.

“Ha! Where is he?” echoed another, his tone mocking.

“If he’s there,” one man pointed towards the inferno, “I reckon he’s in for a scorching night, with nary a drop of water to cool him.”

“Ha, ha! Bob Mason, you old joker!” laughed one of the crowd. “You’d jest even if your own wife were dying.”

“There’s truth in jest,” another remarked, “and to my mind, Bob Mason wouldn’t shed a tear if his wife were to pass.”

“Die?” Bob Mason retorted, his voice dripping with bitter resignation. “She and I have lived and quarreled for thirty-five years. If that isn’t enough to make a man weary of marriage, I don’t know what is. I declare I’m sick of it.” His tone was gruff, but a hint of dark humor shone through his words, prompting a few uneasy chuckles from the mob.

“It’s all well and good to laugh about what you don’t understand,” Mason continued, his eyes hard with the weight of truth. “But I’ll tell you this, neighbor: I made one grand mistake in my life.”

As the flames roared and crackled, consuming the grand house in a cleansing, destructive fury, the mob’s revelry took on a frenzied, almost maniacal character. The burning of the house became a dark ritual, a cathartic release of pent-up anger and fear, leaving the night air thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and the fading echoes of their infernal celebration.